


Invasion of Orleans

by WishStone



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Distrust, Play Fighting, Sparring, growing respect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-23
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,638
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23285539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WishStone/pseuds/WishStone
Summary: “Time-out, time-out!”The sweat-drenched face of Mordred appeared to her sparring partners, her wild blonde locks plastered against her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were pinched shut to keep out more sweat dripping into them.Bedivere stepped back, using his own sword to salute before sheathing it. “Sweat in your eyes, lad?”As a reply, a red-and-silver gauntleted fist punched up, lifting a single digit in a rude gesture.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	Invasion of Orleans

“Time-out, time-out!”

The vast grassland in the Chaldeas-simulated plains of France in mid-summer teased the frozen combatants with a brief gust of wind. A few cloaks flapped; some hair was tussled. Clouds chased their own shadows over the hillside as sunlight glinted off of weaponry and armaments.

Muted swearing was heard from Mordred as she stood, combat ready, but in some kind of distress. She shook her head, her sword arm wavering uncertainly.

A few steps from her, still standing at-ready, were Sir Bedivere and Sir Lancelot. The former stood, as suited his combat style, tall and at ease, waiting for combat to resume. The latter stood slightly crouched, his own blade steady and level, ready to take the break the youngest knight had called to be just a feint.

Secret of Pedigree split along nearly invisible lines, each of the almost-split parts reassembling themselves against the armour of the Knight of Rebellion. The sweat-drenched face of Mordred appeared to her sparring partners, her wild blonde locks plastered against her forehead and cheeks. Her eyes were pinched shut and she lifted her right arm, carelessly discarding Clarent and thus turning it into a drift of golden sparks as the Noble Phantasm vanished. She tried to pry an armoured glove from her hand, rushing to reach for her face the moment she dropped the steel-backed protection.

Bedivere stepped back, using his own sword to salute before sheathing it. “Sweat in your eyes, lad?”

As a reply, a red-and-silver gauntleted fist punched up, lifting a single digit in a rude gesture, as the other hand remained busy rubbing her eyes.

Nearby, Tristan was sitting under a tree alongside Gawain, both having spread their cloaks on the ground as they lounged without their combat gear. The Knight of the Sun laughed at the scene some twenty paces away and shouted, “Bedivere, you should whoop that kind of behaviour out of the kid; it is unbecoming of a Knight of the Round Table!”

“Argh, _shut up_!” In another flash of golden sparks, the girl discarded her armour entirely and lifted both of her hands to rub first her eyes; then the moisture from her brow. “At least I am working on getting better, unlike you old men…”

Lancelot walked to stand beside Bedivere, a small smile on his face. “Sir Mordred has a point. Even I have to admit she gave us a good chase-around.” With that, he pulled a silken handkerchief from gods-know where on his person and started to wipe his face. “Not gotten chased around like this in a while, that is for certain...”

His fellow knight wearing cloth of muted greens with his armour walked closer to his Liege’s bastard child and offered her his own kerchief. “Seeing we all agreed to not unshackle our Noble Phantasms, I think you held up very well. Though maybe you shouldn’t be fighting in full armour at a place like this. The ground is uneven; the sun is cooking me even in my, much lighter, armour… Sparring is supposed to sharpen you, not exhaust you.”

The young woman wiped her face, then lifted a crinkle-nosed smile at her main sparring partner. “What are you talking about, Bedivere? If this is supposed to be training, and supposed to be taken seriously, then _of course_ we fight as if this is the real thing! I mean, I wasn’t around when Master was fighting right _here_ , but she might need me here at some time!”

She offered the drenched silk back and he made a face, shaking his head. “Wash it and _then_ return it, if you would.”

“Anyhow,” Mordred continued with a shrug, stuffing the item down her brassiere, “thanks, Bedi. I think I’m okay for the next round!” Her smile was broad enough to make her squeeze her eyes nearly shut, making the man laugh warmly.

“Right, right. If you’re good for another round; let’s get back to it then…”

“Ah, no. You two have fun,” Lancelot said, waving over his shoulder as he turned towards the tree, “I want a break now.”

“HEY!” Clarent materialised in Mordred’s hand and she swung out to point at the back of the Knight of the Lake as he walked away from her, “two against one is the whole point of this thing! I need at least that much to hit my stride! Hey! HEY! Are you listening? _Get_ _back here_!”

Seeing the Knight of the Lake leaving the fight, Gawain stood. He stretched nonchalantly and said, “Ah, well, I think I have a bit of fight still left in me…” Walking away brusquely, he let his armour neatly shimmer into existence as he headed past Lancelot. The two gave one another a brief nod - as colleagues, but not friends.

The Sun Knight’s gaze quickly turned to Bedivere, whose hand was already resting on the hilt of his own weapon. “Why did I let you talk us all into this again, Bedivere?”

The gentle face of his fellow knight lit up in a small smile. “If Sir Mordred came to you and said: ‘I need to be stronger to be able to stand tall next to a King’, what would you do?”

Gawain’s reply was lost as he only quietly muttered his answer.

“Besides, _you_ look into her eyes and tell me you don’t feel as if it is our own Liege asking you for a favour.”

“Hey! I heard that!” Mordred scowled at them as she launched her blade into the sky, letting her armour shine into existence - shortly before she grabbed Clarent back out of the air. Using the blade to point at both men in turn, she snarled, “Don’t compare me to my father… you bastards.” Her insult held little bite, feeling as if she had added it simply to remain true to herself against her better judgement. The embarrassment that showed was hidden as her helmet reassembled.

“Ah, yes, just like the King,” Gawain sneered. “Honestly…”

With a roar Mordred exploded from where she stood, launching herself at the place two of her fellow knights stood facing her. Gawain darted to her right, Bedivere to her left, readying to crush her wide-open attack in a pincher move. She simply spun in mid-air, knocking Galantine aside with Clarent, while blocking the descending arm of the other knight with her own.

The Sun Knight danced back, trying to lure the short figure of Mordred with him. She did follow, but as Bedivere tried to take advantage of her exposed back, she danced sideways, her sword arching around her upper body to first block the slash coming from behind; then deflecting one from the front. All the while she shouted insults and taunts, which held neither true malice, nor seemed to incite the other knights.

As the blows between the three Heroic Spirits quickened, Tristan plucked at his harp, providing a very quiet accompaniment to the fight, his strings picking out each parry and swing with a brief note or a chord.

Lancelot stood leaning against the same tree, not having discarded his own gear, a gauntleted fist resting on his sword’s pummel. His eyes darted with the fighters, watching each and every move the Knight of Treason made with a frown. Here and there his hands twitched, and his balance shifted, as if attempting to rush forward.

“Sir Lancelot,” Tristan said softly, “if you distrust Sir Mordred this much still, why did you agree to help hone her skills?”

The Knight of the Lake flicked his gaze to the man sitting with his back leaned against the tree, then right back at the battle not far from them. “How can I trust a Knight, who, while leading a revolt against my King, at the same time proclaimed anyone speaking badly against the king would taste her steel? Mordred is mad.”

He grunted as Gawain rushed to take the broad of Clarent against his shoulder hard enough to stagger him, only to have the blade be turned by Bedivere jumping in from the other side. He leaned forward as if to join in and forced himself to lean back again as he saw Mordred being driven back by a coordinated double attack.

With narrowed eyes he continued, “I am here at the behest of Bedivere. Who, for his sins, cannot seem to look past how similar _Sir_ Mordred and our Liege are when they make an earnest request.” His voice turned cold as he added in a whisper, “No matter the sins of one against the other…”

The harp continued to join the clash of metal quietly for a while before the man playing it spoke up again. “Some could say that the catalyst of the Rebellion should not as easily dismiss the one who stepped forth to execute it.”

Not far from where these words were spoken, Mordred jumped up with a yell from having ducked under two swords swinging at her from either side; exploding forth to parry both and driving each of the Knights to take a step back or feel the Sword of Treason on their bodies.

“Ha-haaa! Don’t fall asleep, you old men! Here, here! Come at me!” She turned to set after Bedivere, who awaited her rush, poised straight and in perfect balance. Her whole body appeared to be an open target with the wide, arching swings she made; still holding the large zweihander with only her right hand, her left arching widely to counterbalance her posture. “Come on, come on! Here I am!”

Lancelot had missed the whole exchange, staring with his mouth agape at Tristan. The Knight of Lamentation plucked his harp, his eyes still closed as if nothing but the music in his head mattered; as if he had not just flung an insult at a fellow Knight. “Do you deny my words, Sir Lancelot? Did not Gawain leave here the moment it became clear you approached this area? Have you yourself not fallen as several of us have?”

The reply by the Knight of the Lake came with a deep frown, his fist gripping the hilt of his sword threateningly. “Are you mocking me?”

“Mock? Never. And I would be the last to speak out against the cruel gods of love who tortured us so in life…” His harp played a short melody before returning its commentary on the battle. “But as much as we both know our King has forgiven you for your sins; as much should we all inspect who we are now. We all serve the same Master. We all strive for the same goal – even our own Liege has sworn fealty to Chaldea’s Master. And who are we to distrust one another if joining the same cause is what we are called upon now?” An elaborate chord seemed to congratulate the fighters for an especially fierce exchange. “And if you could move past seeing Sir Mordred as a foe, you could perhaps see what Bedivere has seen since he arrived.”

Lancelot watched the Knight of Lamentation for a moment, then turned to watch the fight. “And what if you overestimate her? You and the rest of them? What if you do not see the real thing?”

“The real thing? You think you see the truth in her sharp tongue and her boisterous behaviour?” Tristan sighed and stood. “If you wonder why I trust her now, this is why.” He lifted his harp up high, the simple motion changing the perception of its nature as he pulled a sting past his cheek to his ear; an arrow of light appearing as he did so. Though barely opened eyes, the man took aim at Gawain and let loose.

“What are-!” Lancelot tried to rush forward, but the projectile was already headed into the fray.

Gawain and Bedivere, whose backs were turned to the tree sheltering his fellow knights, tried to rush Mordred in another combined attack.

“WHAT THE HELL!” With a roar, the bastard child of King Arthuria Pendragon had already set herself into motion; had jumped forward in an explosion of earth and grass. Her rush forward slammed her shoulder into Gawain, pushing him off-balance enough to brush past him. The broad flat of her sword knocked the arrow from its path and sent it tumbling to the ground. Her helmet split open and her face, contorted in fury, sneered at Tristan as she kept running towards him. “WHAT DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?” She skidded to a halt half-way between the four knights, both of her hands gripping Clarent as she held it levelled towards the Archer.

He lifted his hands, his bow-harp shimmering out of existence as he did so. “I meant no offence, merely making a point.”

“A damn _point_? You can’t go shooting at the backs of your friends, idiot! What if I hadn’t been quick enough? Would you inconvenience the Master by having to bring back any of us from the Throne for your dumb games?!”

Tristan opened his eyes slightly as he smiled at the heated wave of outrage directed at him. “Ah, but I knew you would get there in time, Mordred. You are _his son_ , after all…”

Mordred shifted, her eyes darting behind her, then back towards the Archer. “W-Well… that…” She relaxed a split-second, the point of her sword drooping for a few seconds. A blush rose to her cheeks as she pinched her eyes shut, shaking her head. Moments later, the girl snapped open her eyes while squaring herself back up. “ _Look_! Y-You can’t sweet-talk yourself out of everything! That was dangerous! Why would you _do_ that?”

As Tristan walked over to apologise to Mordred and Gawain directly, Lancelot stood back. He watched as the youngest knight yelled at the Knight of Lamentation, while the other two looked on in confusion.

And as he watched the much shorter girl being upset, his own frown started to disappear as he saw her in a new way.

She wasn’t angry because her fight got interrupted, or angry because she thought she had been shot at. Mordred wasn’t angry for any personal reason, or anything as laughable as her own wishes. She was furious on behalf of one of her fellow knights. Her upset was directed at the possibility of one of her sparring partners being injured while helping her.

His hand dropped from the hilt of his sword as the realisation started to bloom.

The Knight of Treachery, like any Knight of the Round Table, carried within her deep loyalty and honour. Her ‘madness’ was simply his own inability to understand when she would wander on which path of the complex moral code she was currently striding.

She hated her father as deeply as she loved him.

She wanted him toppled as much as she demanded him being respected.

She wanted to see her country burn as much as she wanted to see it prosper.

“No wonder… I never bothered to get to know you…” he muttered to himself as he strode towards the others.

He caught the tail-end of a long rant of hers, which put her nose-to-chest with Tristan, shaking a furious finger in his face.

“Very well, very well, to make it up to you, I shall join you for the last leg of sparring. But then we really should leave and head back. We have been blocking the simulator for a few hours already.”

A smirk flashed across her face at once. “Ooh? Are you saying you’ll shoot at me _while_ I fight off these two?”

“These three,” Lancelot added as he joined them.

Mordred’s smirk turned into a grin and Secret of Pedigree reassembled to block her face from her fellow knights. “Now that’s more like it! Okay, I’ll take you all on!” She jumped back several paces, her sword level and at the ready. “Come at me!”

**Author's Note:**

> I set out to write KanNao. Then I took a break, got an NP2 Mordred in fate/Grand Order, started to write a Mordred fic a plot bunny lead me to, but then it ran away with me and now... I think this is a Lancelot fic? Creativity is weird. 
> 
> Also, as I was finishing up this fic, I tried once more for MHX. And now Mordred is NP3. Such is the world...


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